


Siren

by athena_crikey



Series: Second Sight [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Blindness, Case Fic, Episode tie-in, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Morse finds a dead body in the road it's only the beginning of a case full of deception, and danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised. I fudged the days a bit because a) I was feeling too lazy to do a full timeline and b) the show has a date continuity error anyway.

The air tasted of frost – a prickly, dusty sensation on the tongue, accompanied by numb cheekbones and a runny nose. Morse hurried through the December evening, chaffing occasionally at his hands. This year was perhaps the one to finally bite the bullet and buy a proper pair of gloves, but the list of necessities was a long one – gloves, winter coat, scarf, the new release of La Traviata – and shillings short. 

In the distance, a car’s brakes squealed. Morse raised his head with the preternatural instinct to startle, then went on walking. The hand holding his cane was starting to go numb; he sniffled and gripped the leather grip more tightly. 

Morse wended his way through the quiet streets, just himself and Jack Frost for company. He’d come the long way home from work, tired of feeling caged and condescended to at the office and eager for space and air. Out on the streets of Oxford he sometimes felt alone, lost, apprehensive, but never caged. Even without sight he seemed to sense the city’s grandeur; the tall towers and mighty stone walls of the colleges lending strength and permanence. There was a faint smell of coal smoke, the surrounding houses already with fires lit to warm them. It was a homey, familiar smell, one that urged him to return to his own dwelling and curl up by a fire. Unfortunately there was only a loveless paraffin heater waiting for him. 

He reached a kerb and stepped down to cut through the road – he would be home in a few blocks, would perhaps even spend some precious pence on paraffin and some heat. 

As he stepped forward his cane caught on something soft and heavy in the middle of the street and he stumbled, making a noise of surprise. A load fallen off a lorry, or sandbags around some roadworks? He skirted the object with his cane and found it long and uneven, scarcely a foot high.

Listening for traffic and hearing none, Morse bent down and reached out. And touched first a thick shock of hair, and then cold flaccid skin.

He scrambled backwards, tripped, and fell onto freezing pavement. His voice was trapped in his throat. “Help,” he choked out – and then, with more strength and surety, “ _Help!_ ”

  
***

“Mr Morse, isn’t it?”

Morse tilted his head upwards at the sound of his name, spoken by a familiar voice which he couldn’t quite place. He felt cold and ill – mostly cold – but he’d stopped shaking some time ago. After stumbling to a nearby house and convincing them to phone for assistance he’d sunk down to sit on the steps leading from the footpath to the pavement. And there he’d remained, feeling insignificant and forgotten while the police and ambulance men swarmed about.

“I’m sorry, I know we’ve met, but…” Morse chaffed his hands ineffectually, trying to place the voice. He felt lost in a deep fog, his thoughts cold and insubstantial. 

“PC Strange. I gave you a couple of lifts back in the autumn.”

Morse interwove his fingers as though in prayer, pressing the tips deep into the backs of his hands. He could feel the pressure, but not the sensation of it. All he wanted was to be home, somewhere warm and protected where he wouldn’t feel so _lost_. “Oh yes, I remember.”

“They oughtn’t to’ve left you out here, sir. Catch your death on a night like this,” said Strange, reproachfully.

“I thought I should stay – I found the – found him.” Morse shuddered at the memory of the dead skin, nausea rising.

“Do you know when that was?”

Morse shook his head, shame creeping up his spine from a low point in his stomach. “I didn’t check. A good half-hour ago, I suppose.”

“Alright. Here’s the doctor just come now; I’ll have him take a look at you,” said the PC, gently.

Morse rose unsteadily to his feet, legs cold and cramped under him; Strange took his arm to steady him. “I’m fine. Really,” he protested, but didn’t risk pulling away. He felt not quite dizzy but displaced, unsure where he was or what direction he was facing. He wanted suddenly to ask for Thursday, for the comfort of the Inspector’s presence. But that was stupid; childish. Inspectors weren’t called out from their suppers to deal with road accidents.

Strange was already hailing the doctor. This time with the early warning, Morse recognized the voice – a dry tone full of wry wit. 

“Ah, Mr Morse. Just can’t stay out of trouble.”

Morse put out his hand to shake; DeBryn took it and turned it palm-up instead, pressing it with one hand and taking the pulse with the other. “How do you feel? Cold? Shaky?”

“A bit,” admitted Morse, crossing his arms as DeBryn released his hand.

“Touch of shock. You ought to be wrapped up at home with a warm drink.”

The doctor’s words made him feel all the colder, and he repressed a shiver. “I’m just going.”

“I’m sure the constable here can give you a lift,” suggested the doctor in a pointed tone.

“I’m fine –” he began, instinctively. 

“Of course sir,” cut in Strange, as though he hadn’t heard. “This way.” Strange took hold of Morse’s shoulder and led him away before he could protest further. Behind him, he could hear the assembled men clucking over the corpse, muttering about hit-and-run drivers and icy roads.

  
***

Alone in his flat Morse slowly pottered through the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. At first he put no sugar in, but on second thought he spooned some in from the pot. The warm, enveloping fragrance was calming, and as he climbed to sit in bed with his blankets bundled around him like a nestling, he began to feel himself again. The cold horror of the evening faded away, leaving him feeling wrung-out. It was only 8 by his watch but he was exhausted, felt as though he could sleep an age. He kicked off his shoes and dropped back to lie in bed, rolling comfortably under the covers and feeling the mattress sink under his weight.

Something was niggling at him. Something he didn’t like the feeling of, like nails down his spine or raw meat against his skin. There was an unhappy, shivering feeling to it; he turned to bury his face in the pillow. It was just the shock, surely. Just shock, he told himself as he faded into sleep.

Sometime later Morse woke himself with a cry, breaking free of the clinging cobwebs of a nightmare. He was tangled in his bedclothes, anxious and trapped. He fought his way free, kicking and beating at the blankets which bound him, until he lay unencumbered and panting.

In his mind, he held the memory of the dead man’s skin under his hand – cool and limp, setting his own skin creeping.

But how, if he heard the tyres squealing only minutes earlier, was the man already cold when he found him?

  
***

The next morning Morse was forced to undress from his wrinkled suit before re-dressing, managing in the process to trip over both of his shoes. Between that and the anxiousness clinging to him from his midnight realization, he was tetchy by the time he arrived at the office to grunt his good morning to Mrs Thrumming.

He spent the morning correcting the errors in a badly-translated copy of Virgil, striking out the mistakes with a violent pen. He worked without attention to the time or the goings-on in the office, engrossed in his work. 

He didn’t notice anyone approaching until someone knocked on the glass window of his office, three feet from his chair. He jerked his head up, frowning. 

“Morse?” Fred Thursday. Morse pushed away _The Aeneid_ and cocked his head to the side. 

“Fancy some lunch?” asked the Inspector, from the doorway. He sounded tired, voice gritty. Morse rose, placing his pen in the middle of the proof to mark his page, checking his watch; it was gone 1. 

“Of course.”

  
***

“I hear you’ve taken to finding bodies before we do now,” said Thursday in a light tone as they walked down the street together. “Didn’t half surprise PC Strange, you showing up there last night.”

“It was hardly intentional,” replied Morse, feeling a chill run down his spine at the memory. 

“No, no. You could have called me, if you’d needed a ride, or someone to talk to. Sometimes bodies take people strangely.”

“I was fine,” lied Morse, fluidly. 

Thursday hummed quietly in partial disbelief, but continued on. “In any case, he’s been identified by his wife. A don up at Bailey. Classics. It’s a shame, but the street corner wasn’t well lit, and the roads were slippery. Coke-Norris,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. 

“Then you’ve no suspicions of foul play?” asked Morse, pausing in the middle of the pavement. 

“Not every death is suspicious, Morse,” said Thursday, placing his hand on Morse’s arm and starting him along again. Morse walked on, although at a slower pace. 

“No. It’s just that… A little earlier – a few minutes before I found him – I heard car brakes squeal a little ways away. Then I found him, and he was already cold.”

“Didn’t see that in the report,” commented Thursday.

Morse winced. “I forgot to mention it. Perhaps I was a bit thrown off by it all. I had intended to call you at the end of the day to tell you.”

“Well we can give it the once-over, but odds are you heard someone else’s car – may even have been someone swerving around the body, not knowing what it was.”

“If it would help, I did study Greats; I could go through his things – with some assistance, of course.”

“That’s kind of you, Morse, but –”

“I’d like to,” insisted Morse, tightening his hand on Thursday’s elbow. “I feel I owe him something. Please.”

Thursday sighed. “I’ll see if I can arrange it. Here we are,” he added in a more straightforward tone, and turned to take them inside. 

The pub was warm, full of the scent of pie crust and a wood fire; Morse could hear it crackling off to one side. Thursday led them through the entryway and into a corner booth, packing Morse in before him. 

Morse had long since memorized the menu and they ordered quickly. And then silence descended on the table, thick as tar. Thursday sat stilly, only the sound of his breathing speaking to his continued presence. 

“Is something wrong?” asked Morse, after a few minutes of silence. 

“No. No. Nothing. Just work.”

“I’m not your family, Fred. You don’t have to leave it at the door with me.” 

He heard Thursday inhale, then sigh. “No. But this is old business. London; Mile End.” His voice sounded distant, distracted. Morse shrugged out of his coat, the warmth of the room finally beginning to sink in under the chill of the outdoors. 

“You used to be a copper there?”

“A long time ago. Before the war, and after. We dealt with a different kind of criminal there – organized crime, men who’d cut your fingers off soon as look at you. Oh, the nobs here’ve got cruelty down to an art, but they don’t understand real violence. And now it’s started to sink in here.” There was a banked, low-burning fire beneath his words, controlled but searing – an intensity Morse had never heard from him before. 

“What’s happened?”

“Some of the old crowd’ve been poking their noses in, weaseling into the nightclub scene. Trying to establish themselves here, find a new market. Vic Kaspar.” He spat the name like it was poison.

“What can they do?” asked Morse.

“Nothing,” growled Thursday, straightening. “I won’t let ‘em. Come that game here? Over my dead body.”

Morse spread his hands on the table, feeling the worn grain and the long, shallow scratches in the wood. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can keep out of it,” replied Thursday, steadily. “You go poke around the dead don if you like, but not with Vic Kaspar.” 

The barmaid clicked over with their meals, and Thursday forcibly changed the topic to Sam’s upcoming exams.

  
***

They kept lunch to half an hour, Thursday stubbornly quiet and intractable when it came to his decision to keep his case to himself. He did agree to arrange for Morse to have a quick rummage through the don’s rooms, perhaps out of guilt, and ran him over to Bailey.

When he arrived PC Strange was already there and Thursday effected a hand-off, making Strange promise to give Morse a lift back to work, before disappearing. 

“Nice to see you again, sir,” remarked Strange, sounding up-beat as ever. He guided Morse over the doorstep into the college’s quad, and then followed the porter’s directions to Coke-Norris’ office on the north wall. 

The rooms smelt exactly as Morse remembered his own tutor’s had – of paper and ink and ancient book-bindings, mixed with cigarette smoke and dust. 

“Phew, fair lot of books there are in here,” commented Strange. “Hardly room to swing a cat.”

“Rather comes with the territory. Is there anything that looks like it _doesn’t_ belong? Something too new, or left on its own?”

“Well there’s yesterday’s paper, but I suppose that’s hardly what you mean.” There was a rustling as Strange picked it up and examined the newsprint. “Article on that new housing development underlined heavily here, sir. Looks like the old tenants don’t much like the scheme.”

Morse was wandering slowly through the tight space, running his fingers carefully over cloth-bound volumes and smooth paper. He paused in a ray of sunlight, feeling the warmth on his face. “Hm. The land belongs to Bailey, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what it says here.”

“Is there anything else?”

Strange looked around, the wooden floor creaking under his ample bulk. “Just a lot of books, sir. And a few photographs – students, mostly. One of him and a woman ambulance-driver; looks like he was a stretcher-bearer.”

“That’s right,” broke in a new voice from the doorway. “And you are?”

“Police, sir,” answered Strange, in a half-truth. “Just taking a look at Professor Coke-Norris’ things.” Another half-truth; only one of them was doing any looking.

“Ian Kern, a friend of Alistair’s. I leant him an old Baedeker's last year; southern Italy. It had some sentimental value…” Morse could practically picture the man leaning in questioningly.

Strange coughed. “A what, sir?”

“A travel guide, constable,” put in Morse. 

“Ah. Well please, don’t let us stop you,” said Strange, shuffling out of his way. Morse pressed himself into the corner, beside an old desk with an uneven leg that wobbled when his hip bumped against it. Kern got to digging, unstacking and restacking piles of books and sending up a cloud of dust into the still air. 

“What was he like?” asked Morse, fingers sliding over books, a telephone, an uneven stack of papers. 

“Prickly. Generous. Kind. Mostly kind. I shall miss him.” Although speaking perfunctorily, the man sounded genuine. Morse gave a sympathetic smile, ignorant as to whether it was noticed or not.

“And Mrs Coke-Norris?” he asked. “I believe she identified him? What do you make to her?”

“Must have been awful for her.” Kern sighed, pausing in his rummaging. He went on, in a tired, resigned tone. “Millie likes her project. Two years ago we had starving Africans. Last year, the plight of the Red Indian.” 

“And this?” asked Morse, eyebrows raised.

“You’re looking at him, God help me. She thinks I need mothering.” His tone was caustic. “If it hadn’t been for Alistair, I’d have told her where to get off.” He snapped a book shut, ending his vitriol. “Eureka. Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it.” 

Morse shook his head vaguely and Strange muttered something in an agreeable tone, and Kern’s footsteps left the room. 

“Not sure you ought to be doing any questioning, Mr Morse,” said Strange, once he had gone. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Morse, checking the hands of his watch and then retracing his steps to the entrance. “I think that’s all we’ve time for here.”

  
***

“Mr Morse?”

Caught in the act of entering the office Morse paused, looking towards Mrs Thrumming’s desk. “Yes?”

“While you were out there was a call for you.” She sounded more restrained than usual, almost gentle. “Your sister; Joyce. It’s your father. She asked that you call her immediately.”

Morse felt a pang in his own chest, a sharp sudden twist below his breastbone. “I – yes. Thank you.” He stepped forward awkwardly, jamming his thigh into the back of a chair. 

“If it’s an emergency you may, of course, be forgiven the rest of the afternoon,” continued Mrs Thrumming, calling after him.

“Thank you – I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

He hurried into his office, ghosting his hand along his desk to find the phone. He dialed the number by memory, and waited for the line to connect. “Hello – Joyce? It’s me. You phoned?”

The news, when it came, was not good.


	2. Chapter 2

Morse hadn’t travelled much since the last edges of his sight had faded into darkness. Part of him felt stubbornly that he ought to, oughtn’t be limited by the change in his life. But there was nowhere he wanted to travel to, and he had no money to travel on in an case, so the pig-headed refusal to be bested by his illness mostly fell by the way-side. 

Even the journey home, one he had made dozens of times in his student days, was fraught and tiring. Catching the train, making the two transfers, and then finding a cab willing to make the short trip to his father’s house left him feeling limp and exhausted in the back seat of the car. 

“Visiting friends, are you sir?” asked the cabbie as they drove through the uneven streets.

“Family,” replied Morse flatly, and left it at that.

The old iron gate at the front of the house still creaked, unoiled after all these years. Morse made his way up the pathway, cane snagging on the rough surface of the path. At the door he paused and took a deep breath before reaching up to knock.

The door was answered almost immediately; so fast he wondered if Gwen – the perfume told him it was she – had been watching from the front windows. Waiting for the prodigal son. “Joyce said she’d telephoned,” she said in a disapproving tone, doubtless giving him a critical looking over. 

“Hullo Gwen.” He stepped in when she moved back to allow him entrance. 

“Your old room’s full of lumber,” she went on blandly. As if his father weren’t upstairs, dying. 

He struggled not to rise to it. “I’ll be alright on the couch.” 

“I’ve aired the bed in the spare. Won’t have it said we couldn’t put you up.”

It wasn’t consideration, just self-interest plain and simple. He was long used to it. Gwen disappeared, leaving him alone in the hallway of a house he had once known. He had only his memories of it and they were dusty, fragmented things. He had only been home once since losing his sight, and that had been years ago. 

“Hullo stranger,” said a soft voice from off to his left; he paused and turned his head. 

“Hullo, Joycie.” 

She came over to give him a hug and a peck; she seemed no taller than the last time he’d been home, and he supposed that was unlikely to change now. He wondered how she looked, what kind of woman she’d grown into. 

“You’ve lost weight. They not looking after you down there?” she asked, hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged. “Oh, you know.” He was tired of the small talk, of beating around the bush. “How is he, sis?”

He felt Joyce move backwards, drawing her arms across herself. “He’s not been well for weeks, hardly been out of bed. But this morning he had an attack; the doctor said we ought to call you. He looked… very bad,” she said, in a very soft voice. “I thought…” She pressed forward again, burying her face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, catching her weight and supporting her. 

“It’s alright. It’ll be alright,” he murmured into her hair. Then, raising his head; “I’ll go up.”

  
***

Joyce brought him up the stairs, all the way to his father’s bedroom door and left him there before slipping away downstairs. He could smell, under the cover of lavender and rose-water, the fainter scent of urine. Nose wrinkling, he stepped inside. “Dad?”

There was a low sigh from straight ahead, where he remembered the bed. “There was no need for you to come up,” his father said in a slow, labouring voice. “I told Joyce not to fuss.”

He sounded ancient, a wheeze in his chest and slurred speech. As though he were barely holding himself together, about to crumble all to pieces. Morse swallowed, and stepped in. His cane he had left downstairs; here he felt his way forwards with his hands. 

“Just as helpless as you were,” commented his father. Morse found the edge of the bed and sat, feeling the toughness of the mattress springs beneath him. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, ignoring the comment. He laid his hand on the counterpane near the rise of his father’s foot, felt the roughness of the quilted cover. 

“T’were just a turn. I’m right now.” He sounded fussy, but too weak to be irritable. “You shouldn’t have bothered,” he repeated.

“Of course I should’ve. Besides, it’s been years since I’ve been up. I miss Joycie.”

“Not your parents.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Morse immediately, protestingly.

His father made a gruff, tired sound. “Always were a poor liar.”

  
***

Morse stayed the night, sleeping fitfully in the spare room under a duvet that smelled of must and disuse. He went back to Oxford the next morning, feeling uneasy in his mind about his father’s health but with no recourse and only the doctor’s ominous but vague predictions. His father clearly expected him to clear out, and with that weight on his shoulders he left, repeating the journey of the day before and arriving back home on Saturday afternoon.

He spent Saturday evening in a state of anxiety, fidgeting and fussing with his records and books, trying several times to settle in and enjoy something without success. Twice he got up to phone Joyce, the second time with his finger on the dial, before hanging up. There was nothing he could do. 

Not for his father, at least.

The next morning dawned cold and crisp; a hand against his window told of frost ferns on the glass. He dressed warmly, finding an old pair of corduroy trousers, a loose-fitting turtleneck and a heavy blazer. While pulling on his socks he called Miss Frazil through the operator, waiting patiently for the line to connect.

“Hello?” Her voice was rough, as if she’d been smoking for hours already.

Morse straightened, one sock falling to the floor. “Miss Frazil? It’s Morse – we met a while ago regarding the possibility of a braille edition of the _Mail_.”

He could hear the caution in her voice, the overlay of reluctance. “I remember. I’m sorry, Mr Morse, but the answer still has to be no – we can’t –” 

Morse cut her off, straightening to hold the receiver closer to his ear. “I’m not calling about that. It’s regarding an article you printed on Thursday – the Booth Hill development.”

There was a pause. Then, in a surprised voice: “Oh. That. What about it?”

“I’d like to speak with you about it. May I?”

“What – today?” She sounded taken aback.

“I was under the impression that newspaper editors never rest,” he said, now bending to retrieve his fallen sock.

“Some of us try to,” she replied, but with a wry twist. Somehow from what he knew of her he very much doubted she was one of them. She struck him as a captain who would go down with her ship. 

“Please? There may be a connection with a police case,” he added, desperation winning out over pragmatism.

There was another longer pause. Then, “Very well. Where?”

  
***

They met in a small café on Market street in the heart of Oxford. The café was a reminder of his student days, still had safely stored in his memory. The air was thick with the smell of black tea and chocolate. Morse ordered a pot and found a seat in a quiet corner, folding his cane up in his lap and testing the balance of the chair. There was a steady background hum of conversation, but it was quiet; most students were doubtless on their way home for the holidays, most dons finishing their marking.

The girl with the tea arrived at the same moment as Miss Frazil, setting down a metal tray on the small table and unloading the pot, cups, milk and sugar. Then she was gone and Miss Frazil was seating herself.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Morse, gesturing at the tea things.

“No. Although it’s not the type of drink I’m typically offered,” she said, wryly. She had a low voice and a straight-up attitude; he expected she had shocked a great many people in her time through forthrightness. He rather liked it. 

“It’s a bit early for that, surely,” replied Morse, smiling.

There was a creak from her chair and he pictured her leaning back, eyebrows raised. “It’s a bit early for any of this on a Sunday. What’s your connection to Booth Hill – or the police for that matter?” She poured the tea.

“Do you know Alistair Coke-Norris?” he asked, appropriating his tea before she could add sugar to it. 

“Of course. The land used to be in his family. He was killed in a road accident on Thursday evening.”

“He owned the land?” asked Morse, frowning.

She spooned sugar into her own drink, then added milk with a clink of china. “It had been in his family; they gifted it to Bailey donkey’s years ago. He still felt he had an interest in it; he was against the eviction of the farmers. He spoke to me about it – for the article. What of it?”

“I was the one who found him,” said Morse, slowly. The warmth of the tea in his hands kept away the chill of the memory. 

“And?” asked Ms Frazil, waiting. 

“I sometimes provide the police with… specialised assistance.”

“I wasn’t aware there was any connection with the blind.”

“Not that. I have some ties to the university,” he said, stretching the truth as far as it would bend.

She took a sip of her tea, blowing on it first. “Sounds thin,” she said flatly.

Morse gave a fleeting smile. “I feel that myself sometimes. The reason I asked to speak to you is that he had the article from the _Mail_ in his rooms, underlined. Do you know why he would have?”

There was a pause as she set down the cup, playing with the saucer; it made a quiet shuffling noise on the wooden table. Eventually she spoke, sounding almost as though she were going against her better judgement. “I know that last night the college SCR met to discuss the sale and that the ayes came out on top. Coke-Norris would have spoken against, if he’d been there.”

Morse shifted his grip on his tea cup, fingers uncomfortably hot. “Would he have carried the day, if he had?”

“I doubt it. Most of the college has their snouts in the trough. It will mean a significant gain for all the senior fellows.” She tapped her nails on the side of her cup. “So tell me, what is the police connection?”

Morse straightened, putting down his tea. “I believe there may be more to his death than meets his eye. There were some suspicious circumstances.”

“ _You_ believe. What about what the police believe?”

“That’s for them to say.”

There was a quiet snort. “You’re a bit of a swine yourself, Mr Morse,” she said, but without heat.

“I’m sorry. But if he was killed – I can’t just let it go.”

Ms Frazil put down her cup. “You’d make rather a good reporter,” she said, standing. “As it is, the bill’s yours.” She made her way out, heels clicking on the wooden floor.

  
***

Morse returned to his flat for a lunch of bread and cheese. The bread was going stale, hard and unyielding under the thin layer of cheddar.

Things still weren’t adding up. Coke-Norris had opposed a resolution by which others stood to gain, but not effectively; as far as Morse could tell he had posed no threat to the Booth Hill development. The next obvious place to look was his home life – his wife, who devoted her life to her projects, rather than her husband. 

He finished his sandwich, rubbing the crumbs off on the soft ribs of his trousers and doing the meagre washing up. He then called the operator again, this time to ask for Mrs Coke-Norris’ address. 

Armed with the information, he took the bus to North Oxford, disembarking and striking out for Charlbury road with the clippie’s instructions in mind. It seemed almost to have grown colder since the morning. He had the sense it might snow soon; the wind was full of teeth. He hurried along, free hand clenched tightly in his thin pocket, following the pavement. He still had to stop twice to ask for directions; the second person he stopped was a young woman who led him to Mrs Coke-Norris’ doorstep and then vanished, genie-like, at the fulfilment of his wish. 

Morse knocked and waited several beats before he heard movement from within. The door opened and a woman spoke. “Can I help you? Oh, are you lost?” she added, doubtless seeing his cane. She was well-spoken, with a quiet voice. She sounded a typical middle-aged matron; polite, calm, and upright.

“Mrs Coke-Norris?” 

“That’s right,” she answered promptly. She wasn’t very tall, and her soft voice gave him an image of frailty. 

“I was hoping I could speak with you. It’s about your husband.”

There was a pause, Morse holding himself steady in the cold of the winter afternoon, doing his best to look respectable. “Alright. Yes, come in,” she said at last, stepping away from the door. He tapped his way inside, following her directions to the right where a sunny room held a lingering aroma of coffee. “What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Morse,” said Morse, locating a sofa and seating himself. The cushion was deep and soft and he sank alarmingly far into it, back propped up against the overstuffed rear cushion. He took a slow breath, searching for the right words. “It’s just that… I was the one who found your husband, the other night. I thought I should stop by to say how sorry I am. I understand he was a very respected professor.”

“Yes. Yes he was, thank you. That’s kind of you to say. Would you like some tea or coffee? I was just making some for Dr Kern.” 

Morse raised his head at the sudden shift in focus, brows tensing. 

“I’m sorry – am I interrupting?” he asked, making to get up, a cold sweat suddenly breaking out on his back. 

“No, not at all,” she said, emphatically. “He won’t be here for another few minutes. I just prefer to be prepared.”

Morse nodded vaguely. Prepared for Dr Kern’s company, clearly. “I heard from an acquaintance that Booth Hill was Dr Coke-Norris’ family’s land originally,” he remarked casually, settling back but on the edge of the seat now. He had a disquieting fear of being caught here by Kern – caught out as no policeman at all.

“Yes. Horrid, what the council plans to do with it.”

“Isn’t it the college which is selling?” asked Morse, in apparent confusion.

“That’s right, but it was the council that set the price, and arranged the contract with the building firm. Alastair was dead against it – as am I,” she added. The whole speech was very straight-forward, and remarkably unemotional. As though she were discussing the weather, not her newly-dead husband’s ideals. 

“I understand the senior fellows stand to gain a good sum, though.”

“Alistair wouldn’t have taken it, as a matter of principle.” She spoke freely enough, but sounded a little puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken. 

“I see. I’m sorry to ask about it – it’s an issue item I’ve been following. We circulated some information on the new housing for the blind community,” he added, blithely.

“Of course. I can see there are two sides to it – what’s at issue is the way the college and the council have…” she trailed off. 

“Yes?” asked Morse, eyebrows raised inquisitively. 

“No – it’s just – the way they’ve behaved to the tenant farmers has been beastly,” she said, rather hastily. 

“I see. Well, I don’t want to keep you,” said Morse, rising. “Really, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss. I’m glad you won’t be alone.”

“Oh, Ian’s a wonderful friend to me,” said Mrs Coke-Norris immediately, effusively. “He’s promised to help with Alistair’s things. So sweet.” From her pleased, proud tone he was sure she was blushing. 

“How kind,” managed Morse, making his way out of the sitting room. 

“Thank you for coming by. Will you be alright making your way back? I could call you a cab…” she suggested, following him towards the door.

“Thank you, no, I’m fine. Really. Good afternoon.” He hurried out the door and down the path to the pavement, turning north away from the college – the opposite of the way he’d come – and made his way off.

  
***

Evening fell with a marked reduction in the temperature of his small flat, what heat there was leaking out the draughty windows and under the ill-fitted door. Morse pulled on an old jumper from his college days, beginning to fray at the left wrist, and settled down with a copy of Don Quixote. His fingers skimmed over the pages, and he took enjoyment not just in the story but in the flawless braille – something he rarely encountered in his work. He was humming Dulcinea – _I have softly sung thee, dreamed thee_ – when the phone rang.

His heart leapt immediately into his throat at the thought of another call from Joyce – perhaps the final call – and he hurried over so quickly he slammed his shoulder on the corner of the intervening wall. 

“Morse,” he gritted out, hunched over the receiver.

“It’s Thursday,” said the deep voice on the other end of the line. Morse exhaled silently in relief. “Can I come round for a drink?”

“There’s not much on offer, I’m afraid,” he said with a smile, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I’ll bring a bottle.” The Inspector hung up. Morse replaced the receiver and slowly drifted back to his chair, picking up his book and running his finger down the page until he found his place.

It was nearly half an hour before the buzzer went. He put down the book and went to let Thursday in.

“Hullo,” said the Inspector when he opened the front door. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Morse led the way back up the stairs, returning to his own door with the ease of long practice and feeling the rattling knob turn beneath his fingers. He heard liquid sloshing as Thursday struggled out of his coat in the doorway. “I’ll fetch the glasses.”

“I never heard back from you about your jaunt ‘round Coke-Norris’ rooms,” said Thursday, settling himself at the table as Morse pulled down a couple of glasses from the cupboard. He fetched himself water from the tap, and returned with the empty glass for the Inspector. “I called yesterday but you were out.”

“I had to go up north; my father was taken ill,” replied Morse, in a dead tone.

“Oh – everything alright?”

Morse paused. The words _not really_ were on his tongue, but already shrivelling even as he considered them. He didn’t want to open the door to the bleakness that had enveloped him over the past two days. “I’m sure he will be,” he said shortly. “He’s suffered with angina for years.”

“If you say so,” replied Thursday, carefully. He unscrewed the top of his bottle and poured something smelling of sweetness and alcohol into the glass. “It’s this Coke-Norris business I came to talk to you about. What _did_ you find out?” 

Morse bit back a dry comment about the Inspector’s surprising amount of interest in a hit-and-run. “At his rooms? Very little – except an article on the Booth Hill development. But I spoke to his wife and Dorothea Frazil.”

“You did what?” asked Thursday, hollowly.

“Mm-hm,” Morse rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They confirmed he was dead-set against it, in opposition to most of the college. There was a critical meeting of the SCR that night, which I’m sure he would have attended, except for…”

“You can’t just go round interviewing people, Morse, Christ – you’re not a copper,” exploded Thursday, without apparent warning. 

“You asked me to look into it,” protested in Morse, surprised.

“I said you could have a shufti at Coke-Norris’ rooms, not run round playing detective!”

Morse straightened, laying his hands flat on the table and taking a slow breath. “I’m sorry if I misunderstood,” he said, stiffly. “Why are you asking me about it, if you didn’t expect me to ‘play detective’?”

“Because a girl’s been killed, and Coke-Norris had her phone number among his effects,” snapped Thursday, angrily. 

A chill settled into Morse’s bones, ice frosting over the marrow. “What? What girl? How?”

“A Georgina Bannard; she also went by Judy Vallens. She was shot.” His chair creaked as he shifted. “A hit-and-run’s one thing, a connection to a shooting’s another. I want you to stay out of this.”

Morse frowned, fingers tightening on his glass. “You didn’t want me to stay out of the Gull case. What’s different now?”

“Georgina Bannard worked at Vic Kaspar’s club. It’s all connected somehow – the don, the girl, and Kaspar.” He laid it all out in short, terse words, like a pathologist showing his corpses. He struck Morse as raw dynamite, the fuse flickering in the darkness growing shorter and shorter. 

“I can still help – let me keep looking into this. The office is closed for two weeks for the holidays; I have the time.”

Thursday’s chair scraped backwards. “No. That’s final. Stay away from this case, Morse. Go up north, see your father. Have a family Christmas.” He put his glass down forcefully on the table  
and stood. “I’ll see myself out.”

“I’m not a child to be coddled,” snapped Morse.

“No. You’re a civilian,” returned Thursday, voice hard.

“This isn’t a war, Fred.”

For an instant, Thursday went very still, just the sound of his breathing filling the room. “That’s all you know,” he growled. Then he was striding towards the door. There was a creak as it opened, and then a click as it shut. And after it, only silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Morse spend Monday cleaning the flat. He kept it tidy out of necessity rather than habit, and rarely undertook serious scouring. Determined to make a clean sweep of it he rolled up his sleeves, borrowed a mop and bucket from the landlady and filled it with soap and warm water, and cleaned the kitchenette and bathroom floors. He found a sponge and rubber gloves under the sink and did the tile and counters, scrubbing until the flat smelt of caustic false lemon and chemicals. He traded the mop for a vacuum and did the remaining floors, then soaked a cloth and began on the shelves and window ledges. Afterwards he bundled together his laundry, picked up Don Quixote, and trekked out into the cold to visit the laundromat. 

Cleaning was something he neither enjoyed nor excelled at. By the time he was making his way back over icy pavement, a heavy mesh carrier in each hand, it was late afternoon. He spent the rest of the time before dinner folding laundry, and heated up tinned soup for his meal. 

That evening, flat still smelling faintly of its cleansing, he put on _La Bohème_ and lay back on clean sheets to listen with his undivided attention, seeking peace of mind.

  
***

On Tuesday, Morse slept in. He was wallowing in the warm limbo between wakefulness and sleep when the phone rang. The first ring woke him, the second spurred him to rise. He picked up his watch as he went; 9:50.

“Hello?”

“Hello love, it’s Win. It’s – I was wondering if you were free. For tea, or lunch?” She sounded worried, voice tense.

“Of course. Is something the matter?” He pulled a hand through his hair, sleepiness falling swiftly away. 

“It’s about Fred. Fred, and…”

“And Vic Kaspar?” asked Morse, a weight dropping in his stomach. His hand paused half-way through his hair, fingers tangling in the curling locks. 

“You know.” She was surprised, voice dropping low. He could picture her silhouette, standing with shoulders curved in her front hall, one hand holding the receiver and the other curled in the telephone line. 

Morse grimaced, a weaker wave of irritation and protest washing over him as he remembered the other night. “Not very much. Should I come over to see you? I could be there for 11.”

“Thank you. I’ll make some lunch.”

“You don’t have to bother about that,” he protested.

“Nonsense, love.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll see you then.”

  
***

To his surprise, Mrs Thursday met him at the foot of the path leading up to her home. There was no fence or post marking its juncture from the sidewalk, and finding it meant searching along the length of the pavement for the steps. “I was just cleaning up the shrubbery,” she said, taking his arm to walk him up the path. She wore no gloves and carried no secateurs, but he let it pass with a soft smile.

Inside, the house smelt of tea and shoe polish, a homey clean smell. He handed off his coat and cane and let Mrs Thursday walk him into the sitting room, for all that he had by now learnt the way himself. She bustled off to fetch the tea things while he rubbed some warmth back into his hands.

“It was kind of you to come, dear. I really oughtn’t to’ve bothered you –”

“Of course you should have,” he said, smiling up at her. “You’ve been nothing but kindness to me, Mrs Thursday.”

“And someday, I shall get you to call me Win,” she said, returning the smile. She poured out the tea and handed him his cup without sugar. “It’s about Fred,” she went on, tone darkening. “And I am sorry to bother you with it, but I don’t know who else to talk to. I can’t speak to his colleagues – that would be a betrayal. And he doesn’t want to scare me, doesn’t want to involve us. But there’s no one else he listens to, apart from you.”

Morse smiled wryly. “I don’t know I’d say he listens to me.”

“He very much values your opinion,” she returned, firmly. “You’ve been a great help to him, love, and he respects you.”

Morse felt heat flooding his face, turned it downwards towards the steaming tea. “Perhaps you could tell me what you’re worried about. I know Fred’s been a bit … tense these past few days,” he said, thinking of Sunday night’s near explosion. 

“He’s been a perfect powder keg,” said Win, candidly, “but he has good reason. It’s all Vic Kaspar – why that piece of work had to come here and ruin everything…” her voice was tight with anger, and hurt.

“I don’t understand. I know Kaspar has illegal dealings, but –”

“He’s a mobster, one of the old crowd. Tough as nails, bold as brass, and hungry – for everything. Money, fame, respect. He ran Mile End, and half the coppers there. Fred tried to bring him down, a long time ago when we were living in London.”

“Tried,” echoed Morse, frowning.

“Fred had a young constable – Mickey Carter. The lad took too much on himself, started poking around and asking questions – the sort of questions Fred would have asked, if he hadn’t had more sense, more experience. One night Vic Kaspar’s lot went for him, beat him into unconsciousness. He died without ever waking. Fred took it very hard. Things got ugly. And we had Joan and Sam’d just come along – it got to be too much. Fred applied for the job in Oxford and we never looked back. ‘Til now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Morse, heavily, chest tight with sympathy. “And now, what – Fred can’t leave it alone?”

“They can’t leave him alone,” said Win, fiercely, her teacup rattling. “Yesterday, they sent him a funeral wreath. After that… I think there was a fight, down at that club of theirs. Fred came back trembling with rage. It can’t go on. Fred won’t stop until they’re dead – or he is.” Mrs Thursday’s voice broke. Morse put his cup down and reached out for her; she took his hand in a shaking grip. “I can’t stand for anything to happen to him,” she said, voice raspy with tears. Morse pressed her hand.

“It won’t. It won’t. I’ll talk to Fred. Nothing will happen.”

Mrs Thursday sniffed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go all runny.” She pulled her hand back and stood. “I’ll fetch the sandwiches, shall I?” she asked, with artificial brightness. Morse could only force a smile in reply.

  
***

Morse returned to his flat early in the afternoon, full to bursting with tea and sandwiches. He dropped into his chair for a few minutes, digesting what he’d learned. Then, slowly, he stepped over to the phone.

He half expected Thursday to be out when he called, but the Inspector answered the call promptly.

“Thursday.” 

“Fred? It’s Morse. How about a stop at the pub tonight?”

There was a brief pause from the other end. Then, “Alright, the Hatchet?”

“Fine. 5:30?”

“Alright.” The line died with a click. Morse put down the receiver slowly, hand still resting on its cool weight. Now all there was was to decide what to say.

  
***

It was snowing when Morse reached the pub, little flakes brushing against his cheek soft as a kitten’s tongue. A wall of thick heat rolled over him as he opened the door – the fireplaces were burning hot, exuding a woody pine scent. He stepped inside.

“Usual table is it, sir?” asked the serving girl, stopping in front of him.

“Yes, please.” He followed her footsteps to the corner table and established himself in front of the windows; he could feel the cool draught of air whispering against the back of his neck. 

He made himself comfortable in the wooden bench, straight and unforgiving as a pew. The top was carved with scrollwork, he knew from previous visits, carvings that had long since lost their clear outlines to age and ill-use. He rested his head against the edge of the backrest and closed his eyes.

Thought of his father, Joyce, Mrs Thursday, Fred Thursday. Of the tightness in his chest that hadn’t disappeared for days. He rubbed at it, frowning absently. 

“Dreaming?” asked a low voice some minutes later, reviving him from his relaxed state.

“Something like that,” answered Morse, sitting up and stretching. There was a quiet shuffling as Thursday seated himself on the other side of the corner booth.

“Reckon I owe you an apology,” he said heavily, wood creaking as he settled his weight.

Morse turned towards him, expression watchful. “Do you?”

There was a shuffle of clothing, Thursday likely removing his hat or running a hand through his hair. “I’ve no call to be meddling in your home life. What you do with your time – your holidays – is up to you.” 

“Providing I stay away from your investigation,” added Morse, in a needling tone.

“Yes, Morse, provided you don’t interfere with an active police inquiry.”

“I won’t end up like Mickey Carter,” he announced, leaning forward. The words seemed to freefall into sudden silence.

“What would you know about it?” Thursday’s tone was low and dangerous, a leonine growl.

Morse rested his feet flat on the floor, squaring his shoulders. “Mrs Thursday told me what happened. I don’t need protecting, Fred.”

“Don’t you?” rumbled Thursday. 

“No! Do you _know_ what it’s like – having to rely on others for everything? To do your shopping, give directions, read you the paper? I know what it’s like to be looked after – to rely on others for half of my requirements. I don’t need protecting on top of that.”

“Morse…”

“Don’t tell me it’s dangerous. I cross every road I come to without seeing what’s coming,” he snarled, heated.

“I don’t want to see you hurt, lad,” sighed Thursday, tiredly. Morse took a deep breath, loosened his shoulder slightly.

“I don’t either. But I won’t be kept in a cage.” His fingers had latched onto the edge of the table without his noticing, held so tight his nails scratched down against the wood. He relaxed them, pulse pounding in his fingertips as blood flow returned. 

There was a clicking on the wooden floor and he turned as a waft of cheap perfume temporarily overshadowed the smell of the fire. “What can I get for you?” the young woman asked, change jingling somewhere about her person.

Morse asked for water; Thursday ordered a pint. He waited for the sound of her footsteps to vanish into the background noise before going on.

“Will you tell me what happened? Before, with Vic Kaspar? It _was_ him, who was responsible?” he asked in a softer tone.

There was a long pause, Thursday’s breathing slowing. In the background the fire crackled; glasses clinked; people laughed. Thursday rested his hands on the table, its uneven balance shifting towards him. “We couldn’t prove anything. Investigation started turning up Mickey’d been on the take. He hadn’t, of course, but the brass didn’t want to know. They brushed it under the carpet.”

Morse frowned sympathetically. “And you wouldn’t let it go.”

Thursday made a low sound, almost a snort. “Oh, I let it go alright. To my shame. I walked away and let them bury Mickey Carter’s good name along with his body.”

“For Mrs Thursday, and the kids. That’s why you came to Oxford,” said Morse, weighed down with regret on Thursday’s behalf. He could feel the weight of that shame on the Inspector, pulling him down into a river of guilt. 

Thursday shifted his weight. “More or less.”

Their drinks arrived; Morse took his and drew a long straight line up the side through the condensation, felt the slippery wetness below his finger. Feeling he owed Thursday something, some payment for the secret the Inspector had revealed, he turned inwards. Inwards, to the thoughts that were never far from the surface of his mind these days. “My father was never disappointed in me for losing my sight – disappointed in the prospects I lost. He was already too disappointed in me for that to matter. I could never have done right before, and I certainly couldn’t afterwards. It didn’t seemed to matter how hard I tried, so I just… stopped. Stopped reaching, stopped trying to win his approval. Somehow never seemed to stop minding, though.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingertips still damp. 

“It’ll work out alright,” said Thursday gently. Morse couldn’t tell which of them he was referring to. 

“Mrs Thursday worries about you,” he said at last, giving an awkward twist of a smile.

“I don’t need worrying about either, Morse,” returned Thursday, without heat. “I can look out for myself. North Africa and Italy couldn’t bring me down; Oxford isn’t going to.”

“You’ll be careful?”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Thursday, in a gritty voice. Morse wished, for the first time in a long time, that he could have seen the man’s expression.

  
***

Happier in his mind about Thursday, Morse returned home feeling lighter. He let himself into his building and brushed the damp snow from his chest and shoulders, stomping on the mat. The foyer wasn’t much warmer than the outside air, just without the biting teeth of the wind.

Upstairs in his flat, he put the kettle on for a cup of tea and shrugged out of the cold embrace of his coat. 

Unlike the previous few nights, he found himself calm and clear-headed enough to reflect properly on the case. Cases, perhaps, to encompass the murdered girl. Something about Mrs Coke-Norris’ comments made him wonder about the property development at Booth Hill. Perhaps there really was a sinister connection with the construction of the new housing. It was something he could look into. Something to keep him busy.

  
***

The next morning, Morse had a lie-in before rising, the draught from the window beside his bed urging him to snuggle down further under his blankets. Once he’d thrown them off and dressed, he sat at the table considering. Thursday’s easing up at the pub was hopeful, but he didn’t trust the Inspector not to relapse into protectiveness if he started asking questions again. He called the station instead, and asked for Strange.

It took some time and insistence to get through to the PC, who eventually answered sounding breathless. “Strange.”

“Strange, it’s Morse. There’s something I want you to do.”

“What’s that, then?” asked Strange, sounding surprised. “I can’t take you out for more questioning – not unless the old man okays it.”

“It’s not that. I think someone ought to look into the articles of association for the firm doing the work up at Booth Hill; Landesman, I believe. Inspector Thursday thinks there could be a connection between it and the young woman who was murdered,” he said, stretching the truth like spun sugar. “If it comes to anything you can leave me out of it,” he added, with seeming generosity. 

From the other end there was a pause; Morse imagined the man taking a laborious note. “Landesman – articles of association. Got it. You think there’s something in this?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Inspector Thursday does,” repeated Morse encouragingly, and hung up.

  
***

He was making lunch when the phone rang. Slice of cheese in one hand, he wandered casually over to the phone and picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said Joyce’s ragged voice on the other end. Morse’s heart contracted as though lassoed by barbed wire. The flat suddenly seemed silent, the noise of outside traffic, the hum of the refrigerator all disappearing into a swirl of soundlessness. Only Joyce’s voice made it through, rough and breaking. 

“It’s Dad. You have to come back. He’s – he’s – the doctor says you should come. Please, I –” her words were tumbling out in a confused rush, tripping over one another.

“Calm down, Joycie,” he said, straightening and pressing the receiver tighter to his ear. “Of course I’ll come – I’ll catch the first train up. Just hold on, alright?”

She sniffled, and he relaxed slightly. He opened his hand; in his palm, the piece of cheese was crushed into a slimy tube. “I’m going to call for a ride, and I’ll leave right away. Okay?”

He could picture her tucking her hair behind her ear, the gesture of nervousness she had retained since childhood. “Mm-hmm. Okay.”

“I’m going to hang up now. I’ll be there soon,” he promised, voice intense. 

“Right.”

Morse hung up and stood, stone-still, for a minute, his hand resting on the receiver. Then he picked up the phone and dialed. “Fred?” he asked immediately, as soon as the line connected.

“Morse? What is it, I’m –”

“It’s my father. I have to go back home – now. Can you give me a ride to the station?”

There was a pause, and then, gruffly, the Inspector answered, “Of course lad. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

  
***

He was already waiting at the kerb with an old briefcase stuffed with clothes when Thursday arrived, car engine purring as it drew up. Thursday hurried out to take his case and put it in the back while Morse stepped into the front seat.

Inside the car the air was hot, the heating system pumping the cabin full of warm air. There was a noticeable smell; something sweet, something familiar – something from long ago. It tugged at Morse’s thoughts, trying to gain his attention, but he had none to devote to trivialities. 

They didn’t speak on the way to the station, Morse sitting tense with his hands fisted on his knees, Thursday manoeuvering the car silently through the traffic. It was a quick ride by car, even during the holiday season on icy roads. 

At the station Thursday got out with him, ushering him quickly through the crowds to the platform. “Your train’s here,” he said, shortly. It was him that smelled sweetly, Morse realised as he handed Morse his case, the smell still unidentifiable. 

The train was smoking, ready to go. Around him people were running for the doors, footsteps pattering on the platform.

“Thank you,” he said as Thursday handed him up; he mounted the stair and closed the door behind him as the whistle went.

“Morse – look after yourself, alright?” said Thursday, voice thick. He sounded off, as though it were him and not Morse who was going to what was inevitably to end in a funeral. 

“Fred?” he asked, frowning. But the train was already moving, pulling out of the station. Morse stood at the door for a moment, then went to find a seat. One was offered to him in the first compartment he came to and he sat, still frowning. 

As the train huffed its way north, he forced himself to relax. Thursday didn’t need his attention, his worry. It wasn’t Oxford he needed be concerned about, it was Lincolnshire.

For two stops, his mind ran in tight circles centred on his father, on Joyce – even on Gwen.

As they were coming into the third, he stood abruptly, a cry only barely stifled. 

He had remembered the sweet smell on Thursday’s hands, something from long ago. His childhood, after his mother’s death. Time spent out on the common with his father, and then the long indoor evenings, polishing the pistol he had had bought for him.

The smell of gun oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update next week; I'll be on vacay~


	4. Chapter 4

Apprehension surrounded him like a mire, pulling him down deeper and deeper into its thick, suffocating embrace. He couldn’t sit still, fidgeted with his cane, his case, the contents of his pockets. Tapped a racing tattoo on the arm rest, its beat reverberating through his stiff body like an electric current.

Finally the train slowed, a bumpy jerking motion as the cars knocked against one another. A minute later they had stopped and Morse let himself be washed out of the train by the departing passengers. “Stokenchurch, Stokenchurch,” blared the speakers.

Morse scuffed the bottom of his shoe on the platform as he scrambled down off the train, turning his head blindly left and right. He stopped, directly in the lane of traffic, and stiffened. “Please,” he said, clearly, “I need to go to the up line. Can someone take me there?”

There was a moment’s hurried pushing and shoving as passengers swarmed past him, and then: “Come along with me, love,” said a woman with a warm Scots accent, and took his arm. The coat under his hand was rough wool; there was a grandmotherly scent of lily of the valley perfume. “It’s just this way.” She led him down the platform, up over the pedestrian bridge, and down the other side. “Here you are,” said the voice, patting his elbow. He nodded absently, hand clutched tight about his case’s handle.

“Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said in a kindly tone, and clicked away. He stood with his face turned against the biting wind, waiting for the sound of the next train.

  
***

At Oxford, jumpy and anxious as a terrier at a rat-hole, Morse’s first move was to find a phone booth. He put through a call to Thursday’s office – no answer. He hung up and tried again, this time ringing the station’s number. As with before, it was some time before Strange was located, Morse listening to the gobbledegook filtering through the opening line while he waited.

“Hello?” came Strange’s unassuming voice, at last.

“It’s Morse. Where’s Thursday?”

There was an short pause, then Strange answered sounding trepidatious. “Don’t know; he went out almost an hour ago and hasn’t been back since. But matey – I got those papers you were after.”

“What?” Morse frowned at the non sequitur, hand tangled in his hair. “What – oh, Booth Hill?”

“Right. You’ll never believe it – the company’s owned by Vince Kaspar and his father’s bird. And Nixon turned up cheques made out to the City Planner – thousands of pounds.”

“Father – Vic Kaspar?”

“Got it in one. I’ll show the old man when –”

“No, listen. Thursday’s gone to their club to take care of them.” He spoke quickly but clearly, words smooth and round as marbles.

“The Moonlight Rooms – take care of?” echoed Strange. 

“You need to stop him before he does something – before he does something,” ended Morse, lamely. “There’s certainly something crooked going on with the Booth Hill development – you can confront them with it. Now, Strange.”

“Morse…”

Morse gritted his teeth together, palm sweaty on the receiver. “Will you or won’t you?” he demanded. “If you don’t I will. He needs help. He’s gone in there alone.”

“Alright. I’ll bring out the cavalry. But if you’re wrong…” Strange sounded more worried than threatening. Morse pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to stop the pounding of his heartbeat.

“I’m not.”

  
***

He took a cab to the club, stepped out with the cabbie’s directions to cross the street, and ran straight into a tall man. “Jesus Morse, I told you we’d see it taken care of.”

Strange.

“I had to come,” he forced out, a little dazed from the collision. 

“Here – come here.” Strange dragged him over and opened a car door. “Sit there, and stay. I’ll fetch you when it’s done.” He was speaking in the official copper’s voice: pipe down and do as you’re told. Morse did.

The wait while the police went in after Thursday was one of the longest in his life – longer than the sweaty moments before an exam was handed out, longer than the agony of waiting for his doctor to return to give him more bad news. He kept his thumb over the face of his watch, the slow creep of the minute hand too gradual to be perceived. Outside traffic drove on as though nothing were happening, as though somewhere inside the buildings bordering the road Thursday wasn’t in peril of his life.

The silent wait was broken by the sudden metallic clicking of the car door opening, and the cold slice of winter air across his face. “Morse,” came Thursday’s low, tired voice. 

He tilted his head upwards, feeling the wind clawing against his skin. His eyes watered at the sudden dryness and he blinked, squinting against discomfort. 

“I put you on a train,” Thursday continued, sounding more weary than confused.

“And I got off. You’re alright?” he asked, after a beat.

Thursday sighed. “Suppose I am. Vince Kaspar’s been arrested; Vic and Cynthia Riley will have to come in as well. I understand that’s thanks to you.”

“Strange procured the documents.”

“And I know who told him to,” shot back Thursday. He continued in a softer tone, “You should’ve stayed on that train.”

Morse faced upwards, felt the crooked line of his mouth sketching a helpless expression. “I made a promise to Mrs Thursday: nothing would happen to you. I couldn’t break that.”

Thursday stood silently for a moment; Morse wondered at his feelings, his reaction. “Not sure what I’ve done to deserve you, Morse,” he said at last. Morse smiled, and heard Thursday pull himself up, straightening. He continued in a more straightforward tone. “The bribing of the county officials is on them. But they’d nothing to say about the two deaths. We’re back where we started with that.”

Morse rested his hand on the metal rim of the doorframe, feeling the cold smooth press of the iron against his thumb. “Yes. Right where we started,” he said, slowly. “Mrs Coke-Norris: you never talked to her, did you?”

“Wasn’t any need,” replied Thursday, puzzled.

“Perhaps she knows more about this than we thought. I’m sure she knew there was something afoot with the Booth Hill development. And she was awfully quick to turn her affections to Dr Kern.”

“Then perhaps we ought to pay her a visit.”

  
***

Morse could smell the coal fires as Thursday ushered him up the walkway to Mrs Coke-Norris’ home, the air sharp with frost. It was cold enough to snow now, although so far the sky had held off.

Thursday’s knock was answered after a minute’s wait on the doorstep, and a soft voice he recognized from his previous visit answered, “Mr Morse? And…?”

“Inspector Fred Thursday, ma’am. I have a few questions about your husband.”

“Oh, of course. Please come in,” she invited them in, with prompt willingness that struck Morse as peculiar. The reason for his own presence went unquestioned. 

They were shown around the corner into the same sitting room he had been in before; he put a hand out to trace the furniture, and found the arm of a chair with heavy cloth draped over it. Thick, rough bombazine; it wasn’t a feeling that was easily forgotten. University robes. 

“Is this a bad time?” he asked, turning towards Mrs Coke-Norris.

“No, not at all. I’ve just been going through Alistair’s things.”

“I thought Professor Kern was going to help you with that,” he said, curious. 

“He was, but – uh – he was called away… college business,” she temporized. 

“These aren’t his, then?” he asked, raising a trailing sleeve of the gown behind him. 

“Mrs Coke-Norris?” pressed Thursday, voice suddenly loud and stern; Morse felt a chill run down his spine.

“Where is he?” asked Morse, softly.

“The study. He’s… in the study.” There was what sounded almost like a laugh in her tone, somewhere between carefree and exasperated. “Ian loved me,” she added, defensively, turning sharply with a heavy tread of her foot. “He did; I know he did. He just needed time.”

“He found your attentions oppressive,” said Morse, voice high and shocked. Was this what happened to people pressed too far? Was this how confessions were obtained? And God above, what had they been too late to prevent? Had this woman brought two men to their deaths, wrecked them in the name of love?

Thursday pushed past him into the hall, footsteps fading. “Morse, call an ambulance,” he called, tone muffled. 

“Where’s the telephone, Mrs Coke-Norris?” asked Morse, stepping forward.

“In the corner. To your right,” she said, tone flat now. He turned and, taking a step forward, found the low table on which it was perched. He dialed 999, turning the rotary wheel nearly the full circle. Behind him, he heard a metallic click. The cocking of a revolver.

Morse turned, dropping the phone, and the silence was rent by an explosion. He stumbled backwards, tripped and fell, landing hard against the bottom of the sofa. There was a dull ache in his back from the collision, but that was drowned out by a sharp, burning pain in his hip. He tried to crawl backwards, but with the sofa right behind him there was nowhere to go, and when he moved his leg his hip seared as though pressed against a white-hot iron. 

“Morse?” Thursday strode forward through the thick smell of gunpowder and knelt by him to take his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He wanted to raise a hand to his head, to wipe the sudden sheen of sweat from his forehead, but his fingers had fastened themselves tightly over the pain in his leg and refused to obey. “What happened?” he asked; his voice sounded scared and alarmed in his ears. 

“She had a gun stashed somewhere – she shot Kern, was about to shoot you. I took her down,” he said, thickly. And then, “Morse, your leg…” Thursday grabbed at Morse’s wrist and pulled it away; held free in the air Morse could feel the hot stickiness on his palm. A swell of nausea rose up in him. “Christ. Christ, Morse, you –”

The pain seemed to ratchet up at the realisation he’d been shot, that the sharp burning was a bullet. He made to press his hand back against the fiery wound, but Thursday was lifting him up onto the sofa and propping his feet up over the armrest. A moment later his hands were at Morse’s belt, shucking his trousers down and tearing at the side of his shorts. Morse dug his fingers into the rough upholstery, realising after a moment that he was probably smearing blood on them, and then feeling his stomach turn with the further realisation that there was now no owner left to care. Thursday’s hands were so gentle he could hardly feel the pressure over the pain, now throbbing along with his heartbeat. He felt cold and sick – was this death’s shadow? Was this how his father felt, even now?

God, was he going to die first?

“Doesn’t look so bad,” the Inspector said after a minute, sounding shaky. “Not too much blood loss. We’ll get you to hospital, get you patched up, and –”

“I need to be on a train,” broke in Morse, through gritted teeth. Even as he said it it sounded impossible; he doubted he could sit up. But if he wasn’t on his deathbed, he had only one priority. The one he had put aside until now, for Thursday.

“Morse, you need a doctor…” There was a soft sound of fabric rustling, and then something heavy with a silken lining was spread over him; it smelt of pipe-tobacco and leather. Thursday’s coat. Thursday tucked it town over his good side, leaving it loose on his right. 

“The pathologist can take a look at me; you’ll have to call him, won’t you?” he asked, remembering the wry tones of the home office’s doctor. His expression became one of desperation, and he let it. “Please. I need to go home; my father and I – we’ve neither of us been there for the other. That has to end – now, before it’s too late.”

Thursday sighed. “I’ll call him. No promises.”

Morse dropped his head back into the pillow propped up against the armrest and nodded. He could hear the capitulation in Thursday’s tone. After all, he was owed a favour.

  
***

Thursday waited by his side for the doctor’s arrival, a calm steady presence in the face of the panic and the pain lashing at Morse. When the doorbell rang he rose to answer it, and was gone more than a minute; Morse could hear the whispers around the corner in the foyer but was too focused on the burning in his hip to make out the words.

Eventually the doctor entered with soft footsteps, padding over to the sofa. “Well Morse. We must stop meeting like this,” he said, and set something heavy down beside him on the floor. He pulled away Thursday’s coat at the side, and picked at the dampness of Morse’s torn shorts.

“I believe my prescription for you would be to avoid police work,” said the doctor dryly, as he opened the box beside him. “In lieu of that, you’ll be wanting to take yourself off to Casualty as soon as I’m done here.”

Morse said nothing, let the doctor clean out the wound with what smelt like rubbing alcohol and stung like iodine, then tape it up with gauze. 

“How does it look?” he asked, facing up towards the ceiling.

“You’ll live to trouble me another day. The bullet’s missed your pelvis and the head of the femur as well; it’s in there still, caught up in the flesh and muscle. You’ll have to get it removed – I’m not undertaking surgery at a scene of crime, even minor surgery.”

“Can I walk?”

“Yes, with care – and, probably, pain. I don’t bring morphine on my rounds, I’m afraid. As it is you won’t do yourself a mischief, but you won’t do much good either. The wound can’t heal properly until the bullet’s taken out – as well as any cloth it might have brought into the wound.” He rubbed at Morse’s shorts with a cloth; trying to dry off the blood, Morse realised, touched by the thoughtfulness. 

“And now I have other clients to see to, if you’ll excuse me,” said the doctor, rising, and Morse realised with a shiver he meant the dead. Among which he’d nearly been numbered. He lay, silent, as DeBryn padded across the room to where Mrs Coke-Norris was undoubtedly sprawled, dead by Thursday’s hand. 

Thursday returned to help him pull his trousers back on and sit up, side still throbbing and now becoming tender. Other members of the investigative team were starting to arrive; coppers, forensics men, photographers; Thursday narrated their arrival for his benefit. DeBryn signed off on Mrs Coke-Norris as dead and his footsteps disappeared from the room, presumably to examine Kern. 

“Can we leave now?” asked Morse softly, voice ragged.

“Soon,” promised Thursday. “As soon as the doctor signs off on Professor Kern.”

It wasn’t a long time coming. Strange materialized from somewhere and helped him stand, a fiery river of pain flowing down his leg to his knee as he walked. “Mind the door,” said Strange and then they were outside in the cold air. Snow was beginning to fall, fresh and soft on his face. 

“Mind you get yourself off to Casualty,” reminded DeBryn, coming down the stairs behind them.

“I don’t have time,” said Morse, as Strange helped him into the waiting car. It was already warm, heat pouring from the dash. Morse settled down into the corner as Thursday stepped in, closing the door behind him. 

“Time to go home, lad.”

  
***

They drove in silence for a long time, the world outside all thick silence, the world within the car the rattle of the heater and the roar of the engine. Morse propped his hand up against the door and rested his head in it, eyes closed.

“How did you know to come back for me?” asked Thursday eventually. His tone was gentle and carried a kind of sorrow in it, although whether for what he had been denied or what Morse had, Morse didn’t know. 

“Your tone. And the gun,” answered Morse, without moving. 

“Gun?”

“I could smell the gun oil on you. When I was young – the Christmas after my mother died – my father bought me a pistol. Took me out after rabbits on the common. Make a man,” he said, in a flat tone. “You could have trusted me. Trusted Strange – trusted your colleagues.”

“You weren’t there in London,” answered Thursday, stiffly. “If you had been, you wouldn’t say that.”

“You could have trusted me,” repeated Morse, turning his head to face Thursday. 

Thursday sighed. “I know, lad. And I do. It’s just…”

“It’s hard to put your faith in someone like me?” He said it without heat, with a kind of calm resignation. From the beginning, Thursday had treated him with a surprising amount of respect and equality; expecting faith in his ability to help others was perhaps too much.

“No, Morse,” replied Thursday, in a patient tone. “It’s just, I’m starting to see you as family. And that’s not something I’m willing to lose.”

Morse’s elbow skidded off the door and he jerked awkwardly as he caught his own weight. He stared blindly at Thursday, jaw slack.

“Don’t give me that look; Morse. It’s not as though you’ve never had anyone care for you before,” said Thursday, sounding for the first time outside his home like a parent. “Surely you can’t have forgotten the feeling.”

Morse dropped his hand down to skim over the bandaged wound at his hip, face softening. How many years had it been since Susan? Since he and his father last spoke? Since his mother’s death? Forgotten? No. Just grown used to living in its absence. “No. I suppose I haven’t. Not entirely.”

“Good. Then you won’t have much trouble remembering.”

  
***

He began giving directions once they got off the motorway; a cumbersome process which got them turned around a couple of times, but in the end they made it to the house. He recognized it by Thursday’s description.

“Do you want company?” the Inspector asked. Morse paused, uncertain how to refuse. Thursday interpreted the silence correctly, though. “I’ll come back in the morning, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

He got himself out of the car with a pang from his hip and found his way through the old gate and down the path to the front door. He had only just knocked when someone opened the door and Joyce threw her arms around him. “You’ve been an age,” she said, pulling away.

“I’m sorry. Some things happened on the way up. How is he?”

There was only silence, and like Thursday, he interpreted it correctly. “I’ll go up.”

  
***

He had imagined all sorts of things. A last conversation: a reunion, a sparring match, a painful silence. Imagined his father apologizing to him, or railing at him, or ignoring him.

In fact, there was nothing. His father was asleep when he arrived to settle himself into the uncomfortable chair at his side and wait. He waited until he fell asleep, despite the ache in his hip and the emptiness of his stomach. 

And when he awoke, there was nothing left to wait for. He knew it from the silence, the sound of Joyce’s breathing alone in the cold room. 

In the end, he had missed his chance to speak, hadn’t had the chance to say whatever it was he might have. But then, that was the defining feature of their relationship: never saying what needed to be said.

  
***

Joyce called him down later in the morning to see Thursday. His hip was still painful, but less so now, and he was walking without a limp already. Just a lingering stiffness, like that of a rheumatic.

“Need anything?” asked Thursday softly, apparently seeing what needed to be seen on his face. Morse shook his head, swallowing thickly. What he needed now was time, and space.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he offered, his voice thin in the frosty morning air. 

“Take care of yourself,” said Thursday, in a sympathetic tone. “Call me when you get back; I’ll give you a lift from the station.”

“Thank you.”

Thursday reached over the fence to press his shoulder, the heat of his hand comforting through the thin cotton of Morse’s shirt. “I think that’s my line, Morse.”

END


End file.
